Clearly, as I so artistically rendered in breathtaking detail yesterday, my intention for summer is to weep when driving off to work pretty much every day between now and Labor day while my kids wave good-bye. Of course, they won’t just be waving; they’ll be giving me a set of evil smirks, too, that say, “We’re free to irritate Mom alllllll day, and you have to go to work and be suppressed by The Man.”
Or, well, something along those lines. I might have added my own assumptions in there.
At any rate, after I spent all evening last night pouting, I decided to do something about it. And that’s why I just booked my first ever summer beach trip.
For the record, yes, I realize that being a beach-vacation-virgin at almost 40 year of age is the very definition of lame. Please try to keep your pointing, chortles, and sneers to a minimum, thankyouverymuch.
As I made our reservations, though, something else occurred to me. Namely, that this getting away for a few days with little responsibility beyond keeping my progeny fed and entertained gave me an outstanding opportunity to branch out and sample some beer from, you know, out there. In America. Which is not something I get to do too often.
Um. That really wasn’t a suggestion. You can read it here.
While you do that, I need to go make up a very extensive list of summer chores for my kids.
Does “Re-roof the house” need a hyphen or not, do you think?